WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 


VENUS  DE  MILO 

EVE 

MONA  LISA 

BEATRICE  CENCI 

MADONNA  OF  THE  CHAIR 

SISTINE  MADONNA 


BY  PHEBE   ESTELLE  SPALDING 


JOHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

<8>  SAN  FRANCISCO  <$> 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

ROBERT  GORDON  SPROUL,  PRESIDENT. 
<$>    BY  <*> 

MRANDMRS.MILTON  S.RAY 
CECILY,  VIRGINIAANDROSALYN  RAY 

AND  THE 

RAY  OIL  BURNER  COMPANY 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
NEW  YORK. 


WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 


WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 


BY 


PHEBE  ESTELLE  SPALDtt 


VENUS  DE  MILO 

LOUVRE,   PARIS 

C 


AN: 


O.IIM  a 

8D 


WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 


BY 


PHEBE  ESTELLE  SPALDING 


PAUL  ELDER  AND   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  SAN  FRANCISCO 


Copyright,  1905 

by  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 

San  Francisco 


The  Tomoye   Press 
San  Francisco 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  IS  the  effort  of  art  to  relate  itself  to  life  in 
terms  of  beauty;  and  of  life  to  interpret  its 
aims  in  forms  of  action  and  endurance.  There 
is  a  philosophy  of  each  which  makes  the  one 
choose  for  its  motives  external  grace  and  reality;  the 
other  define  its  privileges  and  duties  by  current  gain 
or  loss. 

But  there  is  a  nobler  interpretation  of  life  than 
that  which  concerns  itself  solely  with  the  fleeting 
things  which  must  be  borne  and  done;  and  of  art 
than  the  representation  of  an  ephemeral  charm  or 
incident.  Such  a  conception  finds  in  every  worthy 
act,  in  every  form  idealized  in  marble  or  in  color,  a 
messenger  of  life.  It  makes  beauty  the  memory  and 
minister  of  good. 

Beyond  the  dreary  levels  of  the  passing  hour 
there  lies  a  background  and  a  foreground,  a  record 
and  a  promise.  And  it  is  the  highest  office  of  art, 
I  believe,  to  turn  thitherward  our  gaze — back  to 
the  ideals  of  our  uncorrupted  race,  forward  to  the 
prophetic  "dream  of  man  and  woman  diviner  but 
still  human";  to  select  those  elements  of  a  remote, 

[iii] 


iv  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

perhaps  a  mythic,  past  which  have  in  them  the  gift 
of  eternal  life;  to  justify  through  faith  or  aspiration 
that  assurance  which  has  power  to  give  our  purposes 
and  deeds  new  poise  and  beauty. 

It  is  with  such  an  understanding  of  the  functions 
and  responsibilities  of  art  and  with  a  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  the  service  which  the  genius  of  ancient  and 
modern  times  has  rendered  the  women  of  my  day, 
that  I  have  studied  and  enjoyed  some  of  the  world's 
masterpieces.  And  it  is  with  the  enticing  hope  of 
sharing  with  those  of  kindred  tastes  and  aims  a 
measure  of  the  stimulus  and  satisfaction  which  this 
study  has  afforded,  that  I  have  written  this  modest 
interpretation  of  a  few  of  the  best-known  ideal  con- 
ceptions of  womanhood  in  art. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction      -  iii 

Venus  de  Milo     -  i 

Eve  7 

Mona  Lisa  -     13 

Beatrice  Cenci  19 

Madonna  of  the  Chair  -     25 

Sistine  Madonna  29 


VENUS   DE   MILO 


VENUS  DE  MILO 

ET   of  the  long  line  of  antique  sculptures  in 
the  Louvre,  in  the  center  of  a  little  saloon, 
stands  the  Venus  de  Milo.    The  statue  has 
been   the   occasion   of  much    research    and 
clever  controversy  regarding  the  date  of  its  creation, 
its  true  name  and   the  technical  significance   of  its 
posture.     But  queries  such  as   these  are    of  interest 
chiefly  to  the  student.    To  us  it  is  of  moment  because 
it  represents  the   loftiest  of  those   noble  women  of 
the  imagination  who  ethically  and  spiritually  no  less 
than  aesthetically  constitute  what  we  are  used  to  call 
an  ideal,  and  who  furnish  for  ourselves  and  for  our 
homes  inspiration   to    the  highest  in    goodness    and 
in  beauty. 

The  loftiest,  I  say — for  the  Venus  de  Milo  bears 
no  trace  of  blight  or  weakness  or  wrong.  Within 
her  face  of  calm  there  is  no  sign  of  stress  or  agony. 
She  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  morbid  activity  and 
anxiety  of  our  own  strenuous  day.  Power  is  the 
expression  of  her  form  and  posture,  but  it  is  a  power 
unfretted  by  ambition, — reposeful,  limitless.  Her 
claims  upon  our  admiration  are  the  fitting  ones  of 


4  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

beauty,  dignity,  and  completeness.  She  is  the  product 
of  an  absolute  art;  the  triumph  of  Nature's  unchecked 
harmonious  forces.  She  is  an  ideal, — all,  everything 
women  would  aspire  to  be;  out  of  their  reach,  per- 
haps, under  the  fevered  conditions  into  which  most  of 
us  are  born;  out  of  reach  in  her  physical  charm,  her 
mental  vigor,  her  spiritual  calm.  Yet  looking  at  her 
every  woman  learns  the  better  what  are  the  real 
things  in  life,  what  is  true  achievement. 

The  rare  union  of  her  aptitudes  and  graces  makes 
unnecessary  those  social  devices  which  aim  at  restoring 
the  balance  of  attractions  in  less  symmetrical  women. 
Her  physical  gifts  satisfy  but  do  not  intoxicate.  Her 
mental  attitude  is  characterized  by  clear  and  true 
perception,  by  that  discrimination  which  sees  small 
things  as  small,  great  things  as  they  are. 

Her  religion  is  the  natural  reverence  of  a  being 
that  recognizes,  instinctively  and  fully,  the  relation 
of  the  Highest  to  His  creatures.  She  need  not  call 
upon  her  spiritual  resources  for  things  which  do  not 
rightly  demand  such  dignity.  Her  reason,  her  health 
of  judgment,  will  spare  her  conscience  and  her  feel- 
ings. She  saves  for  the  exercises  of  her  soul  those 
higher  problems  and  emotions  which  link  creation 
with  Creator. 

Her  personality  is  the  natural  expression  of  her 
sanity  and  poise.  She  is  not  "gracious,"  for  there  is 
no  hint  of  patronage  in  her  noble  bearing.  She  is 


VENUS  DE  MILO  5 

not  "queenly" — she  does  not  affect  distinction  above 
other  women.  But  she  is  comrade-like.  Those  who 
come  to  her  come  to  take  and  to  give.  There  is  no 
consciousness  of  superior  merit  in  herself,  of  any  lack 
in  others.  She  neither  sits  in  judgment  upon  those 
whose  ideals  and  actions  are  different  from  her  own, 
nor  lets  go  her  own  ideals  because  of  theirs.  No  one 
in  her  presence  will  feel  more  his  own  deficiencies, 
but  these  will  gradually,  unconsciously  lessen.  No 
one  will  report  her  unapproachable,  or  even  divine, 
in  the  suggestion  of  a  birth  and  habitation  among 
celestial  beings.  Despite  the  classification  which 
mythology  has  given  her,  she  is  a  woman  whom  a 
lover  or  a  friend  may  fondly  claim.  With  such  her 
sympathies  will  be  constant  and  ready  but  not  fevered. 
She  will  never  fret,  never  weary,  never  chill. 

The  marks  of  spiritual  conflict  and  exaltation 
which  the  old  Italian  masters  put  into  the  faces  of 
their  pictured  saints  rose  from  a  necessity  of  life  as 
they  themselves  felt  it,  born  of  conditions  which 
forced  a  sacrifice  of  much  which  Nature  meant  to 
be  wholesome  and  desirable,  for  the  sake  of  that 
higher  development  of  the  soul.  Doubtless  their 
conceptions  were,  in  a  measure,  true;  for  now  that 
sin  has  entered  and  sometimes  masters  woman's  heart 
and  spirit,  we  recognize  how  stern  must  be  the  struggle 
to  conquer  and  expel  it.  But  the  suppression,  the 
pain,  the  conflict,  even  the  triumph,  do  not  represent 


6  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

an  ideal.  Strength,  beauty,  freedom  —  these  are  the 
demands  and  the  results  of  normal,  healthful  life; 
and  it  may  be  for  inspiration  to  life  like  this  that  we 
shall  turn,  and  wisely,  to  the  woman  whom,  centu- 
ries ago,  the  poet-artist  created  for  Greece  and  for 
the  world. 

To  restore  to  balance  our  warring  energies  of 
action  and  of  rest;  to  destroy  by  neglect  the  petty, 
the  unlovely,  the  untrue;  and  to  develop  into  fullest 
fruitage,  by  communion  with  their  like,  aspirations 
ot  bravery,  serenity,  goodness  and  power,  —  this  is  the 
appeal  of  the  Venus  de  Milo  to  all  of  womankind 
who  wish  and  strive  for  that  which  life  and  art  and 
poetry  have  proved  that  God  and  Nature  meant  for 
them  to  be. 


EVE 


EVE 

BUT  the  perfection  of  the  Venus  finds  a  rival 
in  a  radically  unlike  type  of  woman  loveli- 
ness. Across  the  rich  Parisian  city,  in  the 
marble-lined  entrance  hall  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, crouches  the  quivering  form  of  Dagonet's  Eve. 
Historically  we  are  accustomed  to  think  of  her  who 
is  the  motive  of  this  presentation  as  the  remotest 
of  her  sex,  and  so  the  least  connected  with  our 
modern  conception  of  feminine  excellence.  But  not 
so  do  artists  picture  her.  The  symmetrical,  satisfying, 
yet  unintoxicating  charm  of  dignity  and  complete- 
ness which  marks  the  Venus,  belongs  to  the  unsullied 
and  unconscious  age  of  heroism  —  an  age  far  ante- 
dating anything  we  know  of  life,  that  age  when  men 
were  gods.  In  Eve,  by  whatever  artist  formed,  we 
note  always  the  limitations  and  graces  that  connect 
her  with  our  own  more  emotional,  self-conscious  time. 
The  statue  of  the  Luxembourg  is  modern  in  all 
respects.  There  is  the  fearless  selective  realism 
which  distinguishes  the  more  recent  from  the  older 
art.  There  is  the  physical  correspondence  to  the 
mental  agony  which  is  so  signally  modern  French, 

[9] 


io  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

and  which  is  less  sufficiently  expressed  even  in  the 
Laocoon.  There  are  the  curves,  the  rounded  limbs 
and  form,  the  shapely  hands  and  feet,  not  of  some 
woman  of  a  dim  and  undeveloped  past,  but  of  the 
rarest  models  of  today.  Yet  a  glance  convinces  us 
that  we  behold  no  other  than  the  peerless  mother  of 
our  race.  Looking  at  her  we  may  well  wonder 
whether  the  calm  completeness  of  the  eminently  sat- 
isfying does  satisfy.  Here  is  beauty  past  all  telling  — 
beauty  that  tempted  the  serpent,  who  tempted  back 
again  and  wrought  the  ruin  of  our  race.  No  queenly 
gifts  are  hers  —  our  great  foremother's.  Her  dowry 
is  softness  and  grace  and  overwhelming  helplessness. 
We,  disciplined  in  self-confidence  and  reserve,  scorn- 
ful of  weakness  as  of  crime,  with  one  look  at  her 
unschooled  agony,  throw  over  our  harsh  censure  and 
shower  upon  her  the  compassion  which  suddenly  we 
realize  is  indeed  her  due. 

Sweet  Mother  Eve,  gentlest  of  victims,  most  inno- 
cent enslaver !  As  I  study  this  unsurpassed  portrayal 
of  her  charms,  so  exquisite  and  so  tender,  that  were  I 
a  pagan  I  could  worship  her  great  beauty;  a  knight — 
and  I  could  die  to  shield  her  helplessness,  I  am 
forced  to  wonder  whether,  in  our  alert  and  most  pro- 
gressive century,  with  our  practical  efficiency,  our  keen 
sense  of  what  is  righteous  and  expedient,  we  may 
not  be  losing  in  some  vital  measure  our  sympathy 
with  what  is  simply  innocent  and  loving,  fair  and 


.0»Kl 


' 


wo 


AK.  1 


and  which   is  less  si  .ressed   even   in   the 

Laocoon.      There  a  e  rounded   limbs 

and   form,  the  shap<  not  of  some 

woman   of  a  dim  hut  of  the 

rarest   models  of  today,  inces   us 

EVE 
ERNEST  DAGONET;  LUXEMBOURG,  PARIS 

whether  the  calm  completeness  of  the  eminently  sat- 
isfying does  satisfy.  Here  is  beauty  past  all  telling  — 
beauty  that  tempted  the  ipted  back 

'n  and  wrought  t  in  of  nly 

r   dowry 

is  softness  and  grace  and  ^ng  *  ess« 

We,  disciplined  in  self-confidence  and  reserve,  scorn- 
ful of  weakness  as  of  crime,  with  one  look  at  her 
unschooled  agony,  throw  over  our  harsh  censure  .and 
shower  upon  her  the  compassion  which  suddenly  we 
realize  is  indeed 

Sweet  K  inno- 

ccr  d  portrayal 

that  were  I 

a  p  a  knight — 

and    I    t  help  s,   1   am 

forced  to  t  pro- 

gressive centur  our  keen 

sense  of  what  and   cxj  it,  we  may 

not  be  losing  in  measure  our  sympathy 

with   what  is    simply   innocent   and   loving,  fair  and 


EVE  ii 

errant.  I  am  compelled  to  doubt,  too,  whether,  with 
all  our  art  cults  and  philosophies,  with  the  stern- 
ness of  our  material  and  scientific  training,  with  our 
literary,  civic  and  social  responsibilities,  we  are  not 
ignoring,  in  our  scheme  of  usefulness  and  develop- 
ment, the  untechnical,  unanalyzed  enjoyment  of  the 
lines  of  natural  beauty — of  beauty,  not  aesthetic 
standards;  beauty  of  human  face  and  form  no  less 
than  grace  of  intellect  or  soul. 

Yet,  after  all,  even  in  this  melting  marble  we 
insist  upon  a  finer  satisfaction  than  the  sense-joy 
which  color  and  line  afford.  Nor  can  the  woman's 
love-inspiring  helplessness  hold  us  perfectly  in  thrall. 
Our  deepest  sympathy,  our  warmest  love,  are  wakened 
by  her  heart-convulsing  grief.  Dimly  she  guesses  of 
the  evil  she  has  done.  She  cannot  foresee  the  centu- 
ries of  conflict  and  of  pain  which  her  single  sin  has 
brought  upon  uncounted  millions  of  her  perplexed 
and  erring  daughters.  But  one  gift,  one  grace  with 
her  deep  sin,  she  has  bestowed  upon  them  —  a  gift 
compensating,  far  outweighing  the  evil  she  has  done. 
O  frail,  repentant  Eve,  thy  mighty  power  of  sorrow, 
thy  sacred  abandon  of  remorse,  thy  holy  gift  of  tears, 
evermore  since  thy  fall  and  ours,  how  have  they  kept 
in  human  sympathy  our  hearts,  how  saved  from  fatal 
sin  our  souls!  For  since  that  first  sad  day  when 
woman's  gentle  sweetness  proved  her  peril  and  her 
fall,  though  oftentimes  in  joy  we  wander  far  astray, 


12  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

so  long  as  it  is  given  us  to  weep  true  tears  of  peni- 
tence and  fresh  resolve,  no  harm  can  slay.  Our  tears 
shall  cleanse  our  souls  and  humanize  our  hearts, — 
nay,  transform  our  weakness  and  our  sin. 


MONA   LISA 


H 


MONA  LISA 

ALF  reluctantly  we  turn  from  the  impas- 
sioned personality  of  Eve  to  other  and  far 
more  complex  types  of  womanhood.  The 
evil  and  the  good  of  our  first  mother  live 
after  her  and  have  become  curiously  blended  in  her 
posterity  of  daughters. 

In  the  most  splendid  of  the  painting  saloons 
of  the  Louvre  there  hangs  the  world-renowned,  the 
inscrutable,  the  impossible  Mona  Lisa. 

What  has  given  her  fame  —  nay,  power?  Is  it 
beauty?  Hardly  a  score  of  those  who  daily  pass 
before  her  will  answer  yes.  Is  it  talent,  or  intellect, 
or  cleverness?  There  is  no  sign  of  unusual  mind  or 
skill.  Is  it  moral  poise  ?  Soul  depth  ?  Soul  sweet- 
ness ?  Never  have  I  known  of  one  who  seriously 
proposed  this  answer  to  the  query.  Is  it,  then,  the 
genius  of  the  undying  painter  who  wrought  her  face, 
her  form  ?  The  artist  only  makes  visible  to  duller 
eyes  that  which  he  sees  exists. 

Perhaps  no  devotee  of  the  Mona  Lisa  can  satis- 
factorily, even  to  himself,  answer  the  questions  which 
the  most  superficial  observer  may  propound.  Her 


1 6  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

lovers  say  she  has  a  charm,  a  fascination,  an  authority. 
What  is  the  charm  —  if  charm  it  be?  The  power? 
Wonder  for  yourselves.  I  am  her  slave,  and  yet  I 
cannot  name,  much  less  define,  the  witchery,  I  con- 
fess. But  there  are  certain  qualities  within  that  living 
face,  those  passive  hands,  that  mystery  of  hair,  which 
many  an  hour  of  half-conscious  study  seems  to  have 
revealed  and  even  made  familiar.  Do  I  dream  ?  Is 
my  dream  true  ?  That  form,  that  face  of  gentle  quiet 
belongs  to  the  most  powerful  class  of  women  rulers. 
The  Mona  Lisa  is  a  type  of  the  "  eternal  feminine"  — 
the  feminine  not  in  its  queenliness,  its  voluptuous 
beauty, —  far  less  in  its  spiritual  rapport.  Not  the 
noblest,  nor  most  tender,  not  the  most  generously 
human  traits  of  womanhood  are  veiled  yet  reflected 
in  her  elusive  face.  She  is  a  true  daughter  of  Eve, 
yet  not  in  any  of  the  ways  which  make  the  woman 
of  the  Luxembourg  entrancing.  To  this  one  belong 
the  subtleties  of  womankind ;  that  most  entangling 
gift  of  coquetry;  the  art  of  centralizing  herself  as  the 
focus  of  social  and  romantic  life.  Would  the  painter 
have  lingered  four  years  over  portrait  of  living  woman 
of  any  other  type — have  lingered  and  labored  and 
then,  baffled  by  that  feminine  evasive  something,  other 
and  more  than  beauty,  stronger  than  intellect  or 
goodness,  which  enthralls  the  Adams  of  our  race, 
have  confessed,  at  last,  his  work  unfinished  ?  Yet, 
though  his  utmost  skill  could  not  express,  through 


WOMANH' 

crs  say  she  has  a  charn  nation,  an  authority. 

What  is  the  charm  —  if  The  power? 

Wonder  for  yourselve  and   yet   I 

cannot  name,  much   1  ,1  con- 

fess.    But  there  a  <\  qua  living 

face,  those  passive  hands,  that  mystery  of  hair,  which 
many  an  hour  oi  MONA  LISAious  study  seems  to  have 

LEONARDO  DA  riNCI;  LOUVRE,  PARIS 

revealed  an  -n   made  tamiliar.     Do  I  dream  r    Is 

my  drearn  true  ?  That  form,  that  face  of  gentle  quiet 
belongs  to  the  most  powerful  of  women  rulers. 

The  Mona  Lisa  is  a  nine"  — 

the  feminine   no  HIS 

beauty, —  far   less  in   its  spiritual  !he 

noblest,  nor  most  tender,  not  the  most  generously 
human  traits  of  womanhood  aresveiled  yet  reflected 
in  her  elusive  face.  She  is  a  true  daughter  of  Eve, 
yet  not  in  which  make  the  woman 

of  ancing.     To  this  on  >ng 

the  subt  ^mankind;    t\  -  ing 

gift  of  coqu  the 

focus  of  .       the  painter 

ait  of  living  woman 

lingered  and  labored  and 

dne  evasive  something,  other 

and    mot  stronger    than    intellect  or 

goodness,  which  rhe  Adams  of   our  race, 

have   confessed,  at  work   unfinished  ?     Yet, 

though   his   utmost  skill   could   not  express,  through 


MONA  LISA  17 

her  distracting  smile,  her  mocking  eyes,  her  loosely 
folded  fingers,  that  which  he  felt  rather  than  saw, 
the  great  immortalizer  has  left  in  the  accessories  of 
the  picture  a  hint  stronger  than  that  conveyed  by 
the  curious  minglings  in  form  and  feature.  That 
sinuous  stream,  the  winding  open  lake,  the  faintly 
outlined  woodland  shore,  — -what  does  it  mean  ?  Mys- 
tery? The  mystery  of  resistless,  treacherous  lure? 
There  are  no  words,  as  da  Vinci  found  no  colors,  yet 
we  recognize  and  half  reject  while  we  admire. 

There  are  other  women  of  this  class  —  some  the 
plainest  of  their  sex;  some  clever,  and  some  stupid; 
Helens  and  Cleopatras,  Rosamunds,  of  every  time 
and  land.  Their  beauty,  gifts,  or  lack  of  both,  are 
made  effective  through  feminine  manipulation.  Their 
unquestioned  separation  from  the  sometimes  nobler, 
the  more  broadly  human  of  their  sex,  they  count  a 
triumph.  Rulers  are  they  of  kingdoms  large  and 
small;  and  though  other  women  with  keener  brains, 
perhaps,  and  kindlier  hearts,  with  finer  tastes  and 
stronger  souls,  may  despise  their  arts  and  resent  their 
sway,  they  must  recognize  and  reckon  with  their 
power. 


BEATRICE   CENCI 


BEATRICE  CENCI 

A  RELATED  to  the  Mona  Lisa  by  likeness 
or  by  contrast,  many  a  woman  represented 
in  art  comes  to  the  mind.  Opposed  to  her 
artful  mystery  is  the  open  mysticism  of  the 
Virgin  of  the  Immaculate  Conception,  or  the  absorbed 
rapture  of  the  Joan  of  the  Pantheon ;  allied  to  her 
elaborate  indifference,  the  self-conscious  vivacity  of 
the  Woman  with  the  Muff,  Madame  Le  Brun,  Laughing 
Saskia;  opposed  to  her  consciousness  of  sex,  the 
armoured  Joan  of  the  Luxembourg.  Portraits  and 
fancies,  the  realistic  and  the  romantic,  lend  themselves, 
in  their  various  elements  and  phases,  to  obvious  and 
fascinating  comparison  with  this  insinuating  woman. 
But  as  related  to  her  by  peculiarly  significant  forms 
of  difference,  I  have  chosen  as  her  companion  study 
the  well-known  face  of  the  Cenci. 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  what  has  given  this 
picture  its  general  popularity.  Not  that  it  is  lacking 
in  any  of  the  elements  which  give  the  artist  pleasure, 
but  it  would  seem,  for  many  reasons,  to  be  naturally 
removed  from  the  popular  taste  and  knowledge. 
Unlike  most  of  the  subjects  that  are  universally 


22  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

known,  this  one  does  not  belong  to  the  large,  always 
open  galleries  that  are  maintained  by  government, 
but  to  the  private  palace  of  the  Barberini  in  a  way 
street  of  Rome.  Nor  does  the  treatment  greatly 
attract  the  popular  eye.  The  somber  coloring  of 
brown  and  white,  the  pale  and  pensive  face,  all 
absence  of  accessory, —  these  commonly,  I  believe, 
lead  to  a  disappointment  to  those  who  have  studied 
the  picture  solely  from  the  copies  and  colored  prints 
which  have  done  so  much  to  form  a  supposed 
acquaintance  with  its  tone.  Neither  do  the  numerous 
and  almost  perfected  photographs  very  much  better 
reveal  its  distinctive  quality.  Indeed,  this  painting  is 
one  of  the  few  considerably  studied  in  photograph 
where  an  entirely  different  conception  is  to  be  gained 
from  the  color.  It  is. as  difficult  of  reproduction  as 
the  Mona  Lisa  of  analysis.  Hawthorne's  exquisitely 
sensitive  and  balanced  taste  and  mind  felt  and 
expressed  more  completely  than  any  technical  critic 
its  singular  and  powerful  artistic  effect  through  details. 
Yet,  while  we  respond  most  fully  to  his  interpreta- 
tion, I  am  inclined  to  think  that  much  of  the  popu- 
larity of  the  picture  would  be  lost,  with  something  of 
its  just  appreciation  by  the  most  sympathetic,  were 
we  wholly  unacquainted  with  the  history  of  the  girlish 
woman  portrayed.  But  with  her  tragic  life  in  memory, 
the  earnest,  pleading  face,  the  faintly  reddened  eyes, 
the  posture  of  half  bewilderment,  half  weariness,  the 


IN  ART 


2[.U 

open  galleries    that  ed    by  government, 

but   to  the   private  in  a  way 

street    of   \\  •:    treatrr           greatly 

attract    the  The   somber  coloring  of 

brown    and  pale    and    pensive    face,  all 

BEATRICE  CENCI     common' 

GUIDO  RENT;  BARBERINI   PALACE,  ROME 

the  picture  solely  from  the  copies  and  colored  prints 
lone    so    much    to    form    a    supposed 
acquaintance  with  its  tone.    Neither  do  the  numerous 
and  aim  .  much   better 

ictive  quality.  Indeed,  this  painting  is 
one  of  the  few  considerably  studied  in  photograph 
where  an  entirely  different  conception  is  to  be  gained 
from  the  color.  It  is. as  difficult  of  reproduction  as 
the  Mona  Lis  Hawthorne's  exquisitely 

sensiti  and    mind    felt    and 

exj-  1  any  i  itic 

its  sin,  c  effect  through  details. 

Yet,  while  c  fully  to  his  interpreta- 

tion, I  am  ':  of  the  popu- 

larity of  the  p  ith  something  of 

ipprec  t   sympathetic,  were 

we  w)  cquainu  i  the  history  of  the  girlish 

woman  portrayed.    But  u  ic  life  in  memory, 

the  earnest,  pleading  face,  the  faintly  reddened   eyes, 
the  posture  of  half  bewilderment,  half  weariness,  the 


BEATRICE  CENCI  23 

altogether  childish  and  yet  womanly  self-detachment 
from  her  sorrow  and  her  surroundings  —  these  thrill 
and  warm  the  sharer  in  her  great  painter's  interpre- 
tation of  her  soul  and  deed.  The  sympathy  and 
faith  she  rouses  are  the  antipodes  of  the  uneasiness 
that  Mona  Lisa  inspires  even  in  her  admirers. 

Moreover,  though  we  love  the  sweet  face  and 
reflected  innocence  of  heart  of  Beatrice  Cenci,  the 
longer  we  gaze  the  more  we  are  drawn  into  her  own 
attitude  of  separation  from  herself.  It  is  the  deed, 
the  deed,  which  Beatrice  thinks  upon  —  the  crime 
with  which  she  is  charged.  She  has  wrought  that 
which  the  world  calls  wrong — done  it  in  secure  con- 
fidence of  her  own  right  motive,  her  own  disinter- 
ested judgment.  She  has  slain  the  one  by  natural 
ties  most  dear,  for  the  love  and  safety  of  one  by 
natural  ties  remote.  She  has  espoused  a  cause  to  her 
fatal  in  its  results,  which  represented  in  her  mind 
that  which  was  right,  and  must  be  done.  With  her 
girlish  will  and  woman's  hands,  single  and  fearless  of 
soul,  she  has  given  no  thought  to  self,  no  credence  to 
the  wiles  of  compromise,  no  quarter  to  her  trembling 
heart.  But  now  the  deed  is  over;  the  crime,  if  crime 
it  be,  accomplished;  she  longs  to  translate  to  the 
mind  of  the  observer  the  real  motive  of  her  action, — 
not  for  the  sake  of  self-defense,  but  for  the  cause 
of  justice. 

Beatrice   Cenci  is   the    finest,  the   most  sensitive 


24  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

type  of  the  reformer.  She  stands  forever  among  those 
women  who  refuse  security  at  the  expense  of  right 
or  what  they  term  the  right.  Untrained,  immature 
in  judgment,  the  girl,  we  may  believe,  misunderstood 
her  mission;  we  may  even  believe  did  a  wrong  in 
itself.  But  her  sincerity,  her  stern  sweetness  of  pur- 
pose, her  unfaltering  though,  perchance,  rash  act,  her 
courage,  which  feared  nothing  but  evil  and  injus- 
tice,—  these  place  her  and  immortalize  her  in  litera- 
ture and  art  and  life  among  the  highest,  noblest  of 
womankind. 


MADONNA  OF   THE   CHAIR 


MADONNA  OF  THE  CHAIR 

IN   THE   city  of  Florence,  rich  with   its   shrined 
memories  of  artist  and  saint  and  seer,  within  the 
well-known  gallery  of  the  Pitti,  stands  the  easled 
picture  of  the   Madonna  of  the   Chair.    Artists 
praise  its  soft,  rich  colors,  its  exquisite  technique.    To 
the  student  it   marks   an  epoch  in   the   development 
of  a  great  master's  style.     The  church  loves  it  for  its 
divine   portrayal   of   the    holy   maiden-mother.      But 
Raphael   wrought    the    picture    not    for    devotee    or 
scholar    or  for   fellow-craftsman.     It  was   the    home 
dream  of  the  unhomed  painter,  the  truest  and  sweetest 
conception   of  human  wealth   and   content   that  has 
ever  entered  the  heart  of  man. 

It  is  idle  for  women  of  this  or  any  other  genera- 
tion to  rail  against  the  institution  of  the  family,  the 
bondage  of  motherhood,  the  simple  joys  that  have 
their  birth  and  their  development  within  the  narrow 
circle  of  the  home.  Equally  vain  is  it  to  contrast 
the  achievements  of  the  wife  and  mother  with  the 
triumphs  and  enjoyments  of  those  of  our  sex  who 
have  won  for  themselves  independence,  fame,  distinc- 
tion of  any  sort;  for  while  to  a  few  women  it  is 


28  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

allotted  through  their  own  personalities  to  inspire, 
enslave,  fire  to  heroic  deeds,  or  to  accomplish  such 
themselves,  by  far  the  larger,  happier  number  find 
their  abundance  in  the  peace  of  home  and  in  the 
clinging  love  of  little  children.  These  are  the  means 
by  which  such  rule  their  larger  world ;  these  the 
motifs  that  poets  and  painters  recognize  as  holiest 
and  most  harmonious.  Happy  and  noble  the  woman 
who  lives  her  life  nobly  and  happily  in  other  spheres, 
other  activities, — from  duty  to  herself  that  she  may 
keep  her  faith  with  womanhood;  to  others,  that  she 
may  serve  distinctively  some  great  need  through 
unusual  and  heroic  personality,  and  in  kingdoms  for- 
bidden to  the  home.  Yet  the  poet  and  the  painter 
are  not  wrong  in  setting  instinctively  before  all 
women,  of  all  times  and  lands,  their  highest,  sweetest, 
most  religious  theme  of  art — woman,  the  mother, 
the  server,  the  comforter,  the  keeper  of  the  home. 


WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

allotted    through  \    personalities    to   inspire, 

enslave,  fire  to  hen  >r  to  accomplish  such 

themselves,  by  far  happier  number  find 

their  abundance  ir  \e  and   in   the 

clinging  love  of  i  These  are  the  UK 

by  which  such  nil  r  larger  world;  these  the 
motifs  that  potMADONNA  DELLA  SEDIA 

and  most  tf™ELLO  ™ziot  PITTI  PALACE,  FLORENCJ^  ^  woman 

who  lives  her  life  nobly  and  happily  in  other  spheres, 
other  activities, — from  duty  to  herself  that  she  may 
keep  her  faith  with  womanhood ;  to  others,  that  she 
may  serve  distinctively  some  great  need  through 
unusual  and  heroic  personality,  and  in  kingdoms  for- 
bidden to  the  home.  Yet  the  poet  and  the  painter 
are  not  wrong  in  setting  instinctively  before  all 
women,  of  all  times  and  lands,  their  highest,  sweetest, 
most  religious  theme  of  art — woman,  the  mother, 
the  server,  the  comforter,  the  keeper  of  the  home. 


SISTINE   MADONNA 


SISTINE  MADONNA 

THE   Madonna  of  the  Chair — how  sweet  it 
is,  how  true  in  its  supreme  simplicity!     No 
other  artist,  we   are   told,  has   equalled,  in 
happy  beauty,  this  dream  of  chaste  and  loving 
motherhood. 

* 

But  to  this  man  there  came  other  visions,  such  as 
opened  to  the  Hebrew  prophets  when  they  sang  of 
Zion,  scourged  and  purified,  redeemed, —  yet  not  the 
perfect  vision.  Ever  before  him  gleamed  an  unseen, 
heavenly  beauty;  hovered  the  elusive  assurance  that 
of  the  best  which  he  had  wrought  there  was  yet  a 
better;  that  of  the  truest  there  was  sometime  to 
unfold  to  his  eager  soul  a  larger,  purer  truth.  And  so 
in  faith  and  hope  he  dreamed  and  fulfilled  his  dreams, 
and  dreamed  again.  Legends  of  saints  and  martyrs 
of  the  church  he  spread  upon  his  glowing  canvas; 
myths  he  portrayed;  sweet  women's  faces;  men  who 
had  mastered  life;  angels  and  archangels  and  many 
a  story  of  the  Man  divine*  But  evermore  his  pencil 
lingered  over  his  dearest  dream  —  of  motherhood; 
and  so  he  pictured- most  the  sacred  woman  and  her 
holy  child — sometimes  a  sweet  maiden  face  gazing  in 

[31] 


32  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

rapture  upon  a  tiny  babe;  sometimes  the  poised  and 
lovely  matron;  sometimes  the  holy  Queen  of  Heaven, 
with  saints  and  angels  at  her  side. 

And  still  the  vision  faltered,  and  still  he  wrought, 
and  men  of  his  own  time  proclaimed  him  prince  of 
painters,  until,  one  day,  the  heavens  were  opened  to 
his  gaze !  Then,  like  an  idle  fancy,  melted  the  earth- 
scenes  he  had  painted,  his  older  dreams  of  bliss,  of 
happiness  and  good.  Something  else  he  saw,  different, 
more  lofty,  ultimate, — and  still  the  vision  was  of 
motherhood;  yet  of  no  fair  and  unschooled  girl  of  vir- 
gin innocence;  no  calm-browed  woman  shielding  the 
shrinking  babe  within  her  arms  from  every  breath  of 
harm;  no  high-erected  queen  receiving  homage  from 
the  hosts  of  heaven,  crowned  by  the  Lord  of  lords. 

Far  otherwise !  A  woman  stands  upon  the  whirling 
clouds;  clasped  by  her  stronger  arm  she  holds  her 
child  folded  to  her  warm  breast;  his  head  nestles 
within  the  hollow  of  her  neck.  The  posture  tells  of 
mutual  love  and  sympathy.  And  yet  the  child  within 
his  mother's  arms  has  become  to  her  suddenly  no 
longer  all  her  own,  her  son  for  whom  to  spare  from 
wrong  or  pain  she  would  not  count  her  life-blood 
dear.  To  her  far  gaze  has  been  revealed  a  countless 
throng  of  human  lives  of  every  age  and  clime,  dark- 
stained  with  sin,  heart-worn  with  suffering,  mad  with 
injustice,  sick  with  fear.  The  skies  bend  black  above 
them ;  there  are  none  to  listen  to  their  cries. 


Ui  ,•/>••  . 


I)  IN  ART 

rapture  upon  a  tiny  letimes  the  poised  and 

lovely  matron;   som  loly  Queen  of  Heaven, 

with  saints  and  a;  .ie. 

And  still  the  ,  and  still  he  wrought, 

and  men  of  his  own  time  pro*  d   him  prince  of 

painters,  until,  one  day,  the  heavens  \\  to 

MADONNA  DI  SAN  SISTO 

RAFFAELLO  SANZIO;  GALLERY,  DRESDEN 

• 

happiness  and  good.  Something  else  he  saw,  different, 
more  lofty,  ultimate, — and  still  the  vision  was  of 
motherhood;  yet  of  no  fair  and  unschooled  girl  of  vir- 
gin innocence;  no  calm-browed  woman  shielding  the 
shrinking  babe  within  her  arms  from  every  breath  of 
harm;  no  high-erected  queen  receiving  homage  from 
the  hosts  of  heaven,  crowned  by  the  Lord  of  lords. 
Far  otherwise  1  A  woman  stands  upon  the  whirling 
clouds;  clasped  by  her  stronger  arm  she  holds  her 
child  folded  to  her  a  breast  iles 

within  of 

mutuallov*  the  child  within 

his  m  e  to  her  suddenly  no 

longer  all  her  for  whom  to  spare  from 

wrong  or  pain  d  not  count  her  life-blood 

dear.  To  her  far  gaze  has  been  revealed  a  countless 
throng  of  human  li\  every  age  and  clime,  dark- 

stained  with  sin,  heart-worn  with  suffering,  mad  with 
injustice,  sick  with  fear.  The  skies  bend  black  above 
them ;  there  are  none  to  listen  to  their  cries. 


SISTINE  MADONNA  33 

But  then  upon  a  distant  hilltop  she  beholds  the 
lonely  figure  of  a  man.  He  bows  in  agony.  Dark 
drops  of  blood  are  gathering  on  his  brow.  He  has 
heard  the  anguished  human  prayers  for  help,  and  his 
soul  answers  back  in  sympathy.  He  turns  upward  his 
face  —  it  is  the  face  of  the  child  lying  against  her 
breast.  There  looms  beside,  the  cross;  she  sees  the 
crown  of  thorns,  she  feels  the  kiss  of  the  betrayer. 
She  hears  the  man's  despairing  cry  of  helplessness,  of 
self-surrender,  and  the  final  "It  is  finished,"  from  his 
appealing  lips.  Yet,  though  the  vision  pierces  her  soul 
like  a  sword,  some  holy  calm  has  mastered  all  her 
mother's  fears.  Serene  she  stands  and  gazes  still  before 
her  and  beyond,  and  she  beholds  dimly  a  radiance 
lighting  the  lonely  hilltop  and  the  towering  cross. 
It  grows  and  sends  its  gleam  still  farther  till  it  touches, 
enfolds,  illumines  the  dark  multitudes  of  suffering 
humanity.  And  with  its  growing  light,  pain  softens, 
wars  grow  less,  until,  down  the  centuries  that  are  yet 
to  come,  the  mother  sees  a  race  of  men  and  women 
redeemed  from  hatred,  sin  and  strife.  And  the  strong 
heart  of  the  woman  thrills  with  the  new-born  signifi- 
cance of  life,  and  joy,  and  grief,  and  death,  and  service; 
and  she  casts  aside  from  her  great  soul  the  dread  of 
present  ill,  the  hope  of  present  gain  or  good,  and 
consents,  unfearing,  to  her  own  unbounded  sorrow, 
and  for  her  son,  to  ignominy,  death,  defeat.  And 
suddenly  the  things  of  heaven  become  to  her  the 


34  WOMANHOOD  IN  ART 

things  of  sight,  and  she  beholds  the  smile  of  angel 
faces  near. 

The  little  son  within  her  arms  catches  the  mighty 
import  of  his  mother's  mood,  her  sacrifice  and  con- 
secration ;  and  with  her  he  yields  himself  to  unknown 
pain  and  self-forgetting  service  for  mankind. 

And  the  glory  and  the  beauty  of  the  woman 
standing  there  place  her  beyond  the  worded  thought 
of  man,  the  woman  beyond  all  women  of  all  time. 

For  it  is  not  in  the  self-poise  of  the  unrivalled 
Venus,  not  in  the  passionate  womanliness  of  Eve,  nor 
in  the  witchery  of  Mona  Lisa,  nor  the  unguided 
heroism  of  gentle  Beatrice,  nor  yet  in  the  sweeter 
beauty  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Chair,  that  sculptor, 
poet,  painter,  has  dreamed  his  loftiest  dream.  Some- 
thing other — deeper,  more  stable,  farther-reaching 
in  its  vision,  its  import,  its  fulfilment;  some  more- 
embracing,  godlike  woman-meaning  must  be  that 
which  satisfies  his  noblest  mood  and  ours. 

And  such  a  vision,  such  an  assurance,  such  an 
inspiration,  the  divinest  of  all  painters  has  left  to  us — 
the  care-encumbered  women  of  yesterday,  today, 
tomorrow — in  the  spiritual  insight,  the  soul-strength, 
the  unmatched  service  of  sacrifice,  of  the  divine 
Sistine  Madonna. 


